


Apocalypse Fic

by TheDamnRiddler



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), World War Z (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Gen, Gore, Horror, Kidnapping, Zombies, violence toward the undead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 17:44:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2317910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDamnRiddler/pseuds/TheDamnRiddler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first few minutes of the apocalypse happen in a blur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apocalypse Fic

**Author's Note:**

> Because there just needs to be more apocalypse fics for teen wolf. World War Z/Teen Wolf fusion. Sorry if it seems a little rushed toward the end, I got tired of looking at it.

The first few minutes of the apocalypse happen in a blur.

Peter has spent most of the late afternoon and early evening spying on Sheriff Stilinski; watching the man go about his business with narrowed eyes. He doesn't like him. Well, he doesn't really like anyone that points a gun at his face. But he really doesn't like it when someone points a gun at his face without good reason.

It's _his_ fault that he has homicidal monologues while in a comatose state? Really? Ridiculous.

" _There won't be a third time_ ," Peter grouses lowly.

The day's growing old; dusk just beginning to stretch out to color the sky as the Sheriff stops gabbing with one of the towns' busybodies--who insists on telling everyone within hearing range about the strange actions of one of her neighbors--and tosses a wave at a passing deputy before ducking back into the station.

Peter frowns from his hiding place, just across the street and to the side of an overpriced, small MoviePlex. It's not like he's going to _do_ anything really. He's not going to hurt the man. The wolf just wants to keep an eye on things that have the potential to hurt _him_. And though the good Sheriff might be low on that list, _he's still on it_.

The streets are becoming heavier with people coming into town to grab an early dinner.

A group of tweens pass him by without a second glance in a wave of perfume and body spray strong enough to make his eyes water and he decides he's done for the day. There's a nice diner a few blocks down that he's fond of for their coffee and he's reasonably hungry enough to abandon his post and stroll off down the street.

"Holy crap," says a young man Peter passes by. He and a few of his friends seem to be clustering around one of those new phones with the giant screen.

"Where is that?" a girl next to him says.

"Philadelphia."

And Peter doesn't care enough to continue listening.

He's nearing the front window of the diner, passing by a few of the patrons who are talking about some plane crashes that happened a few days ago (when are planes _not_ falling out of the air nowadays) and the outbreak of Ebola (or whatever the hell it is this time; there's always some disease popping up in backwards countries), when he remembers why he stopped coming here.

He'd made the mistake of shitting where he ate, so to speak--flirting with one of the middle aged waitresses because he was bored. She hadn't left him alone since then. Every time he visited the damn place, she made sure she was his server. Honestly at this point it was getting harder to come up with excuses not to take her number when she oh-so-subtly left it with his check.

Peter's just thinking of where else he'd rather go for dinner when he feels the blast. It's sudden and white-hot and knocks him forward and flat on his face hard enough that he _bounces_ and for a few seconds he's back in his old house, surrounded by his screaming family.

A gash is healing on his chin and his ears are ringing with a high pitched whine that's making him dizzy, so he doesn't really hear the first or second explosion, but he feels their heat.

Peter rolls onto his back with a gasp, scrabbling and crab walking backwards as he tries to focus his blurring vision on what's happening.

There's what's left of a fuel truck embedded in the sheriffs' station.

It's not a big one, but it must have been carrying just enough oil to light up the building it crashed into along with two others near it. The back end of the vehicle is hanging out from a crumbled pile of brick and shattered glass and collapsing roof, surrounded by plumes of thick, black smoke that barrel out and up into the sky.

The third explosion completely takes out the building and the few remaining squad cars parked in front of it. It's a heavy clap that shocks through the air and rattles Peter's bones and burns hair from his forearms even from this distance as he brings them up to shield his face. He scrambles up and back, tripping over his own feet and shoots a hand out to steady himself against the diners' wall.

He distantly realizes that glass is crunching under his shoes and he glances down--the large window planes have blown, showering patrons and wait staff and a few of them are screaming and raising shaky hands to their bleeding faces.

Peter absently wipes at his own face, smearing blood from already healed wounds.

He turns and starts walking away, blinking and working his jaw to pop his ears, not quite sure of his balance or what's just happened.

One of the tweens that passed him earlier is standing in the middle of the sidewalk gaping at him; he the adult, clearly the one who's supposed to know what to do in any situation. He shrugs at her. She has globs of mascara running from her huge brown eyes, down her pale face and she blinks up at him silently before pointing to the street.

He shifts his gaze and...and has no idea what he's seeing for a few seconds.

One of the boys the preteen had been traveling with is laying out flat in the middle of the road, half run over by a mini coupe. And yes, he can understand how this girl is stunned into silence, because she's too young to be watching her friend scream and writhe with what looks like most of his right side crushed and trapped.

Peter has no idea what to say to her when she grabs his arm and points again--yes, he sees her friend, thank you, he's not helping--oh, that. Huh.

He notices what she's pointing at now and he's again wondering at what he's seeing. The woman (he thinks it's a woman) driving the mini coupe isn't rushing out to save the poor boy she's mangled up. Instead she's bashing her face against the drivers' side window teeth-first. It's almost like she's trying to bite her way out of the car; teeth clacking and breaking against the glass, body pulled taunt and jerking against her still-buckled seatbelt.

The wolf watches the odd behavior with a growing sense of unease. Which, yes, it's certainly strange and incredibly bizarre, but he feels it's more...

Peter shakes himself and steps back from the scene, jerking his arm free of the now whimpering girl. It puts him on edge. Everything about this woman makes him want to bare his teeth and pop his claws.

The animal in him--not necessarily the wolf, but the part of the human brain that still fears the darkness and the unknown--is rearing back, making him want to bolt. The more rational side of him needs to stay, needs to know and learn and observe. The war inside of him keeps him still.

There are other people darting about now; a young couple have scurried into the street with the boy, one of them yelling at the woman in the car (who's now a mess of blood and broken bone and can barely be seen through the smears on the window), the other kneeling down to the screaming teen. Someone bumps passed him and continues to race away from the explosion that's billowing so much black smoke that it's almost impossible to see the flames scorching everything.

He's aware of wailing sirens now; a group of shrieking women on the corner; a man who seems to be trying to cough up a lung with ragged gasps. An ambulance cries off in the distance, closely followed by the sound of a fire truck.

There's a high pitched screech from further down the street; more people coming out of little shops and diners to investigate.

Peter melds himself against the diners' brick walls, tucking himself partly behind it in a small alleyway to escape the heat still billowing from the Sheriffs' Station. He should probably leave before someone he knows spies him and thinks he had absolutely anything to do with this.

He's about to turn on his heel and take off when he sees one of the men that had come to help the tween boy (who they have finally managed to extract from the underneath the vehicle) open the car door.

A few people are shouting at each other, at their phones, at anyone passing in the street, asking for a doctor for help--they seem to have come to the conclusion that the driver is having some sort of epileptic fit. So the good Samaritan isn't paying attention, is looking over his shoulder and waving at one of his friends to come help; he doesn't immediately see the woman in the car, face busted beyond recognition: teeth cracked and falling out of her gaping mouth, lips split wide open down to the chin, nose and cheekbones crushed and broken with a few bits of skin still attached to the splintered window.

Peter does. And he watches; detached with a bewildered expression as the driver jerks in her seat, her entire body arching toward her rescuer before she snaps her remaining teeth and _lurches_ over, biting the mans' outstretched arm. 

Her bite goes deep and she's snarling, and as Peter looks closer, he can see how her eyes are milked over with some sort of sickly, pearlescent sheen. She shakes her head like a dog and rears back, taking a chunk of the mans' arm with her.

There's a sudden rush on the car; the guys' friends racing over to help. The woman arches her neck back and makes a strange coughing/hissing noise, clacking her jaw loudly as she...chews?

A few more people with wide eyes and ashen faces run passed him; completely ignoring the scene playing out in the middle of the road.

And Peter's done. He doesn't know what's going on and he doesn't fucking care. Humans taking drugs and flipping the fuck out is hardly anything new and he's finished being the curious observer for the day.

An ambulance arrives and people clear a path for the paramedics as down the road, firefighters gaze up at the blaze engulfing two blocks.

The Good Samaritan is yelling in pain, back bowing up as he collapses against his friends. They're trying to get him to keep still so they can wrap his arm and stop the bleeding as Peter slowly backs away. He's barely two steps from slipping into the shadows when there's another hoarse cry; one of the paramedics has tried to assist the Crazy Biting Bitch and is trying to unbuckle her from her seatbelt--as though that will calm her and stop whatever hallucinatory crap she's on.

He pulls back after getting what looks like his entire right ear bitten off. Several other people are mobbing around the car now--

Peter gets brushed out of the way as a mother barrels passed, clutching her tiny daughter to her chest. Both of them have eyes so wide they look like they're about to pop out of their heads and roll away. The woman suddenly catches sight of the ambulance and takes two quick steps toward it before going rigid. She seems to take in the entire scene and makes an awful gasping squeal before gripping her child tighter and bolting back in the direction she was heading.

Peter shakes his head and ducks into the alleyway. That. _That_ if nothing else is what worries him. A mothers' instinct to protect her child is a basic one for all animals. If she saw a problem with things and ran, so should he.

All his animal senses are on high alert and he can't help but stick to the shadows as he slips passed an overflowing dumpster; ears peeled for the noises behind him--someone else crying out. He walks faster, breaking into a quick jog as the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He almost bowls over the person coming out the back door of the diner.

It's the annoying waitress, hair messed up with shards of glass dusting her shoulders. She has shallow cuts over her face and forearms and opens her mouth in a wide 'o' as she stares up at him.

His gaze drops down to the car keys she has clutched tightly against her chest. Peter didn't bring his car; it was easier to follow the Sheriff on foot.

He adopts what he hopes is a convincing concerned expression and puts his hands on the woman's shoulders. "Are you alright?"

She blinks at him for a few moments before bringing a free hand up and pointing at her ear. There's a thin trickle of blood seeping free and he nods; must be busted eardrum or something.

He holds his hand out for her keys and she stares for a few more seconds before nodding and handing them over, jabbing her finger in the direction of a new truck sitting in the corner of the employee parking lot.

Then her eyes flick behind him and widen.

He turns quickly and finds the Good Samaritan staring at them. The waitress grabs onto his arm, clutching it against her bosom as they both take a step back.

The man is working his jaw, clacking his teeth and gazing at them like they're the only thing he sees. Peter curls his lips back in a mute snarl. He notices the same milky eyes the woman driver had and there's blood on his mouth.

Good Samaritan gives a full body jerk and hisses, lurching closer like he's being pulled by a rope at the waist.

Then he makes a weird hacking screech and charges at them. Peter doesn't even think twice about it--he grabs the waitress stumbling beside him and shoves her in the man's path. He's on her in an instant, lunging toward her with a growl, teeth first. They both go down and Peter turns and runs to the truck as she shrieks behind him.

He runs over both of them as he backs from the parking spot. Twice. Then he's peeling out from behind the diner with squealing tires.

Peter doesn't know where he's going until he's almost there. And when he realizes it, his grip tightens on the steering wheel in annoyance.

Whatever's going on downtown hasn't come here yet. At least, that's what it seems like. The neighborhood is quiet, a few kids are riding their bikes around the corner as Peter passes them. They wave at him and he waves back.

He feels his hackles lower a just a bit, but can't stop the flexing of his jaw, can't stop his teeth and claws itching to come out.

Peter pulls the truck in front of a familiar house and shuts off the engine with a sigh. He shouldn't be here. He should be going to his apartment, grabbing the things he needs most and then getting the hell away from...whatever this was. That might be an overreaction, but he'd rather overreact than do nothing and not live to complain about it later.

The wolf huffs and rubs both hands over his face before getting out of the truck.

A little boy, five or seven-ish (Peter doesn't know ages, it's hard to tell), is wavering on the Sheriffs' front porch. Peter goes rigid and stops right where he is, one foot in the air, hovering over the sidewalk. His breath catches in his throat as the child snaps his teeth and jerks his head back, rasping in a large gulp of air before pitching forward and _slamming_ his face against the door.

Peter's already moving when he hears the door being unlocked and annoyed shouting from the other side.

Like with the waitress, there's no thought, no hesitation. He sees the boys' milky gaze and clacking teeth and the jerky movements of his small body and reacts. Stiles is just flinging open the door and looking up at him when Peter comes bounding up the steps and snatches the tiny kids' head in the palm of his right hand. It fits perfectly, so small as his fingers curl around and tighten.

Stiles' jaw drops and he makes a noise of confusion, but the boys' skull gives a loud _crack_ and caves in before he can get any words out.

Peter flicks gore from his hand and locks his gaze on Stiles. The teen stares stupidly for only a moment before he trips backward into his house, grip tight on the door as he goes to slam it shut.

Peter catches it and shoves his way inside.

"Don't!" Stiles shouts.

But the wolf already has a bloodied hand clamped tight around his pale wrist, tugging the teen out of his home with ease.

"What--you killed?!" Stiles is tugging, pulling with all his strength that does nothing more than piss Peter off.

"Your father's dead," Peter snaps.

"Wha-?"

Which, okay, maybe not the best way to break the news.

"There's something going on--" is all Peter gets out before he's tackled onto the front lawn.

Stiles starts swinging at the back of his head wildly, screaming at him and Peter takes a moment to just let him. He can understand losing family and the need to lash out.

But this is annoying.

Peter flips them both over in one smooth move, pinning Stiles to the grass and snatching both his bony wrists in one hand.

"You fucking-"

"Your father's dead. Actually, everyone that was in the Sheriffs' station is dead. I didn't do it. There are people walking around going crazy," Peter grits out slowly, carefully.

"I don't believe you!" Stiles snarls.

Peter pauses. Well, okay, he wouldn't believe him either. "I don't care."

He gets up and yanks the teen to his feet and shoves him toward the truck. Stiles flicks his gaze to him, then beyond him toward his house. Peter sighs and punches the kid in the head as he tries to dart around him. Stiles slumps heavily.

There's a few neighbors standing on their porches, gaping and yammering into their cell phones. Whatever. Who are they going to call? The police?

A high pitched scream sounds from a block away and Peter hauls Stiles up and over one shoulder.

When they're on the road and well out of Beacon Hills, Peter finally glances over at where Stiles is still passed out and slumped against the passenger door. He doesn't know why he took the boy. Except...

In disaster, in crisis, it's human nature to grab what's most important and run.

Peter doesn't want to think about that. So he turns the radio onto an automatic broadcast and keeps driving.

 

 

end.


End file.
